Radioactive
by Cardinal Robbins
Summary: SVU AU Sgt. John Munch is elated when Det. Sarah Zelman returns home from consulting for the FBI, but she has shipped a mysterious box to him that resides under his desk in the SVU bullpen. While pursuing a predator, John and Sarah are taken unaware by an invisible adversary that threatens their lives and may have dire future consequences. Will they live to see their retirement?


"Radioactive" ©2013 by Cardinal Robbins

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Disclaimer: John Munch and his squad-mates belong to Dick Wolf & Wolf Films, but Sarah Zelman belongs to me. He can't have her.

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Detective Sergeant John Munch pulled his favorite gray unmarked to a stop at the American Airlines arrivals area and parked, waiting for one of JFK's airport police to casually walk over to tell him to move. As he watched, a patrol officer cast a long glance at the Crown Victoria. John smirked as a woman with short strawberry blonde hair tapped the unwitting cop on the shoulder, flashed an FBI fold-over I.D. and said, "Don't even think about it." His partner's smile disarmed the officer to the point he shook his head and laughed, spreading his hands in a gesture of genial defeat.

John unfastened his seatbelt, opened his door and swung his long legs out of the car as Special Agent Sarah Zelman approached 'Bessie's' trunk. "Hey, partner," he said, unable to hide his grin, "all finished saving the Nation for the time being?" He relieved her of her laptop case and pilot's bag, securing them both before he led her to the passenger side, his hand on the small of her back before he opened the door.

"Fuck the Nation – feed me," she said curtly, punctuating it with her own wide smile. "And I mean_ now." _

"Such profanity! I can always tell when you've been with the boys down in Quantico." He had her laughing, which was definitely an improvement he knew. She'd been at the FBI training center for ten long days – and even longer nights – with both of them stuck talking at odd hours via Skype or whatever secured transmission she could get on the smartphone she'd been issued by the Feds. John had ached for her; they'd ached for each other, which was why he had arranged for the day off to meet her, feed her, then hopefully get her back with him as his NYPD partner and away from her FBI mindset.

They shared a meaningful look, because both of them hated it when she consulted for the government. The money, however, was something she couldn't turn down, he knew. It stoked both of their retirement accounts to the point where, if she continued to share her expertise with the organization that thought they could previously put her out to pasture, they'd be able to move anywhere they wanted for as long as they wanted – for the rest of their lives. He favored the South of France, specifically a small town in a river gorge, where he had lured her for a month's vacation well over a year ago. It was somehow in the Munch genetics, because his Uncle Andrew favored Paris when he wasn't in Miami, Florida or Pikesville, Maryland.

"Yeah, you always know," she admitted, not usually dropping the f-bomb unless she was incredibly frustrated. "The food down there is dreadful. We're always sequestered for the meetings and seminars, so everything arrives by couriers at room temperature." She took the smartphone out of her pocket, checked it for messages, then turned it off. "Too much bread, too many pastries, greasy fried crap that all tasted the same, and I looked like a total prima donna because the first thing out of my mouth was, 'I am not eating any of this.'"

"You were running the show," he admitted. "Did they knuckle under to your culinary demands?" They were five minutes away from the curb, still too soon for him to put his hand on her knee.

"More or less," she replied, "but I've had enough fruit and salad to last me. It's time for meat. I feel protein deprived." She let out a long breath, her tastes set on something that would shock him. "John, take me somewhere that offers a sirloin. At least a ten-ounce piece of meat, medium-well, with a side of something that's not lettuce."

His eyes widened ever so slightly behind his polychromic lenses, as he looked over at her for a brief moment. "Red meat? Obviously, chewing on new recruits wasn't enough for my beautiful Tigress." They were finally away from the airport and on the expressway, his hand slowly making its way to her thigh, where it rested.

"It wasn't simply my usual "Elements of Terrorism" seminar series," she explained, shaking her head. "And you know what? I have a surprise for you; take us to Arnie Morton's in Midtown." She looked over as he met her gaze for a moment, his expression questioning her sanity. "They should be open by the time we get there."

"You hate going to Morton's because it's insanely expensive," he blurted, incredulous. "For the two of us, it'll easily run a couple hundred." He shook his head, but headed for Midtown nonetheless. "That's the surprise, lunch at a Chicago-style steakhouse? You must be feeling anemic _and_ homesick." He gave her thigh a gentle squeeze, trying not to be distracted by his lascivious thoughts.

"A superlative steak isn't it," she replied. "I have news and we're going to celebrate. Extremely good news, all kinds of it." She gave him her best Mona Lisa smile, her hand over his for a moment before she stroked his long fingers. She wrapped her hand around his and gave it a gentle squeeze. "I want you to be happy about what's transpired, John."

"When you preface it, I immediately sense trouble. Good news always comes with a catch," he replied, trying to hide his cynicism but failing miserably. "There has to be something to counter it, Sarah, you know that." He let out a long, slow sigh. "You've said it yourself, there has to be karmic balance to the universe." John could feel himself break into a sweat beneath his undershirt, carefully ironed dress shirt, impeccable tie and dark gray suit. "The Feds want you back permanently, not as a consultant. It's finally happened."

"John, if you go down that road right now, I'm going to be pissed." Sarah knew he'd ventured into emotionally dark territory, literally the topic that robbed him of sleep at least once or twice a month. He was sure a convoy of shiny black Chevy SUVs would pull up wherever Zelman was, probably covered by the dark of night, to steal her away from him entirely. All because of what she knew, who she knew, and what the federal government understood she was capable of. "I'm still a consultant – on my own terms – and no one's coming to force me at gunpoint back into the FBI full-time. They can't do that and they know it."

"You can't promise me that," he said quietly. "Not until we're retired and out of the country. I know a U.S. Marshal who was forced to leave his wife and three year old daughter, to go to Afghanistan. The Feds forced him into dangerous territory to teach the Iraqi police how to defend themselves."

"I know him, too, John. The reason they could send him back was because he started out as Military Police in the Army," she explained, careful to keep her voice even. "The Army got wind he was a top cop with the Feds, so they exercised their right to pull him back in for a three month tour of duty."

"My point is, once our government has its hooks in you, you _can't_ get away," he countered, sure he was losing ground in their debate but unwilling to believe the FBI would keep their hands off of her if they could lure her back somehow – or they would simply take her.

"I get your point, John, but I was never in the military and there's a clause in my contract with the FBI. They can't force me back full-time, because the clause clearly states that I'm first and foremost NYPD." She was holding his hand, which had become sticky with nervous perspiration. "I'm not saying anything else until we're at Morton's." She wanted him to be happy, but she could tell they were on the verge of perhaps not a feud, but something a lot less joyous than their reunion was supposed to be.

"Whatever you drop in my lap, I'll do my best to be thrilled about it." He looked at her for a long moment as they sat at a red traffic light, his expression hopeful. It was the best he could manage under the circumstances as he saw them. He forced a tight smile, reminding himself she was there with him right then, after almost two weeks away. Maybe the news would be something positive, he reminded himself. She rarely returned from Quantico in an upbeat mood, but here she was, fiddling with the radio and doing all those things she usually did. She wasn't distant, with her mind on national security issues as it normally was when she flew back from instructing FBI agents.

She was here and she was his; to John Munch that was all that mattered.

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John held the heavy smoked glass door open for Sarah as they walked into the steak house, immediately greeted by a thin blonde in a tasteful black dress. "Welcome to Morton's," she said warmly. "Two for lunch?"

"Yes," Munch replied, surprised that before he could say another word, Sarah had once again flashed her FBI fold-over. It was all he could do to resist the urge to roll his eyes and sigh. He suddenly had the impulse to take it from her – and burn it.

"If we could have a very secluded table, we'd greatly appreciate it," Zelman said, her voice barely above a whisper. "We're detectives. We'd prefer not to be overheard." Her genial expression put the hostess at ease once more, as she pocketed her federal identification.

"I have just the place for you both, right this way." She walked them to a table where they could see the door, far enough away and secluded enough that no one would hear their quiet conversation. "Will this be acceptable?"

"It's perfect. Thank you," Sarah replied as they both sat down.

The hostess held out the wine list as John took it, assured them their server would be with them shortly, then left them to talk.

As soon as she was out of earshot, John gave Sarah an exasperated look over the top of his lenses. "Would you stop using your FBI I.D. now, please?" he asked, a hint of irritation in his tone. "You scare the daylights out of people with that thing. You could have just pointed to my badge and said we have police business to discuss." He glanced down at the wine list but stopped short, looking at her curiously as she took it out again. "Sarah – "

"I did it partly because I was hoping you'd jokingly take it away from me." She opened it fully and pushed it across the small table. "When's the last time you really looked at my fold-over, John? And I mean genuinely read it, not just ogled the lousy picture."

He smiled, his face pinking slightly from embarrassment. "You shouldn't say that, it's a very good picture." Cautiously, as if it would snap his hand off, he carefully picked up the thin leather wallet and stared at more than just the large-print "FBI" in blue lettering. His eyes narrowed, thin worry lines visible across his forehead. "The last time I saw this, you were a Special Agent. When, exactly, did you become an Assistant Special Agent-in-Charge?" He realized she had been promoted not once, but twice, without his knowing about it. He blew out a long, almost disgusted breath.

"May I bring you something to drink?" The server's timing had been impeccable, forcing Munch's attention to the wine list for a decision.

John looked at Sarah, gesturing for her to voice a preference in what he ordered for them. "Merlot?"

"That would be wonderful," she replied. "Something with depth and a lot of fruit."

He ordered them a bottle of Trefethen's 2008 Merlot, for once unconcerned about the markup in price. Again, as soon as they were alone, John pushed her fold-over back to her, a sour look on his face. "You didn't think it was important to tell me you were moving up in the Feds?" He huffed slightly, his feelings not simply hurt but trampled on. "I finally understand how Fin felt, when it came out that I made sergeant. No wonder he dumped me for a while."

And are you going to dump me? Sarah thought, deciding not to start a row between them. She took a deep breath, wondering how he'd take the truth. "John, I didn't figure those promotions were more than meaningless title changes, mostly because I've been consulting for so long." She paused while their server presented the wine, opened it and poured a small amount in John's glass.

He nodded his head in the affirmative after he sampled it, staring intently into Sarah's dark eyes as their wine was poured. "We already know what we'd like to order," he said, circumventing the need for the waiter to bring the chrome cart, show off their dry-aged steaks and talk about the day's specials. "I'd like the rib eye, medium, with a baked potato – sour cream and chives only. My partner will have the ten ounce sirloin, medium-well, with steamed broccoli."

"Excellent choices. I'll return when those are ready." The white aproned server left for the kitchen, leaving both detectives to their somewhat strained conversation.

"You're telling me that they'd promoted you to Senior Special Agent at one point, then Supervisory Special Agent, but you didn't think it was important enough to talk with me about it?" He toyed with his fork before he took up his napkin and draped it over his lap. "Why not? It's because you didn't want me to know, isn't it? You move up the command chain, and like I said before the Feds get their hooks deeper into you, yet you decide not to say a word."

"No, John, that's not it," she said firmly. "It's because it didn't change how much money I was being paid to consult." She gave him a pleading look before placing her own napkin in her lap. "When I got to Quantico, the first thing that happened on that Monday morning was a renegotiation of my contract for the next two years. That's when they promoted me to Assistant Special Agent-in-Charge."

"Two years?" He fortified himself with another deep sip of wine. "They've never offered you more than one year at a time. The more I hear about all this, the less I like it." He watched her face carefully for any hint of an answer, sure she had signed her soul away to the government for the sake of their retirement accounts.

"I made them revise it to a twelve-month commitment, so you can relax." She reached under the table and briefly took his hand. "This is where the good news comes in – the very good news." She released him, gazing steadily into his dark eyes. "I negotiated a rate of five hundred fifty dollars an hour for my consulting services, which includes all the time I spend developing training materials, my travel time – all of it," she explained. "Do you know what that means?"

He gave a low, appreciative whistle at the sound of her adjusted hourly rate. "It means they had to give you another promotion to justify that much money. I get it now, I do." For the first time since the airport, his shoulders loosened and he felt the tension leave the back of his neck. "They don't intend to call you when the world blows up, to rush off into the night and assist some Special Agent-in-Charge working God knows where?"

"No, they don't, unless – " Sarah hesitated, wondering how much she could say in a public place. She studied the room carefully to ensure no one would overhear them.

"Unless what? Say it." John hated when she withheld information from him, even if it was a matter of security. "Unless your security clearance forbids you. Did they change your security clearance, too?"

She dropped her voice to a near-whisper after making sure no one was around to hear them. "Unless it's a matter of national security and has to do with terrorism. The real reason I got the title and the mega-bucks is because of the materials I developed and the sessions I presented at Quantico." She saw their server approaching and gave John a glance he recognized as 'don't say anything else.' She smiled as the hot food was set before her, more than ready for an excellent meal.

Once they were alone again, Munch looked up from his steak, a curious expression on his handsome features. "Your clearance did change, didn't it? Does this have anything to do with the week of vacation you took, developing the anti-terrorism program for our nuclear reactors?" He was no longer irked with her, but genuinely intrigued. Don Cragen had signed off on her taking seven days off over four months ago, and she'd worked almost eighteen hours a day on materials later sent to the Nuclear Regulatory Commission and, ultimately, to U.S. Department of Homeland Security for review.

"Yeah, they did raise my clearance. It's now _officially_ Above Top Secret. And it has everything to do with all that," she replied, cutting another bite of perfectly cooked red meat. "Both agencies had very little to add or revise, both were extremely impressed with the quality of the materials, and everyone at the FBI wanted me to start doing seminars to disseminate everything to other agents as soon as possible." She looked thoughtful for a moment, punctuating her expression with a shrug. "I wasn't only teaching Probationary Agents – new recruits – about everything. The FBI is making a ton of money off of me by charging the CIA, Secret Service and other governmental agencies top dollar to let their agents take this training. Soon enough, they'll settle on a price for state and local first responders, too. There's an incredible amount of money to be made here, John…for us, as well as the government."

"I'm thrilled they recognized your logic and expertise, since you've been giving them benefit of both on a regular basis. After I studied those materials, it was clear you'd outdone yourself." He also knew her skills as a negotiator were second only to his, whether it was pulling information out of a perp or haggling over the price of a new car. "What rate did you negotiate for that week? Technically, it would have been your old rate of two fifty an hour." He poured her more Merlot, buoyed by the thought of her skills finally paying off in a substantial way.

"They recognized how valuable those materials are, so they offered me a bonus to basically equal my new rate for all the time spent developing everything. If I so much as spend time reading an e-mail, I can bill them for that time." They linked hands under the table again surreptitiously. "And, along with the raise and the new title, there's a little something extra in the bag I'd checked on my way up from Quantico." She smiled widely, trying not to laugh.

"A fabulous parting gift from the Feds?" he asked, his tone that of a game show host. He smiled back, wondering what on earth she could have been given by the FBI that wasn't monetary. "Don't tell me, let me guess. The FBI is a gun culture, which means – "

"Another Glock…a G-21." She rolled her eyes, shaking her head incredulously as he chuckled.

"You've got to be kidding me," he replied. "That's a .45 ACP – it's a portable cannon. They expect you to use that as a work carry? Not in the NYPD. I think you could only get away with that if you worked for the Port Authority."

"No kidding. I had to qualify with it while I was there, which I did. It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be," she admitted. "When I first made Special Agent, I had to qualify with a G-22, which was no big deal since it's a .40 caliber pistol. My boss let me carry a G-35 instead, since it fit me better, as long as I carried the Glock 26 I was given at the academy as a back-up piece." She took another sip of wine and smiled. "But no, I'm still carrying the nine-millimeter Glock you gave me when the NYPD hired me. It's my good luck charm."

John reached under the table and took her hand. "I hope it always is," he said softly. He looked deep into her eyes, squeezing her hand gently. "I've missed you, Sarah. In the bullpen, on the streets, but especially at night." He let her hand slip from his as he took a quick look around the room, still a bit nervous someone with ties to Internal Affairs might see them together.

"I've missed you, too, John," she said, finally breaking away from his gaze. "Life is too lonely without you by my side, but if we push ahead just a little while longer, we won't merely be vacationing in that little French village you took me to, we'll be buying our own place there." She smiled, a wide, genuine expression of joy at the thought of the two of them living away from the cold New York winters. "We could find a place in town or we could even buy a winery. We can always rent the vineyards and facilities to get back our investment."

He chuckled, his smile lingering. "That's still too much work for what I have in mind. I'd rather we found a place of our own in town, where we can walk to the market every morning. We can find a tiny café, drink coffee and have a croissant, before we decide what we need for the rest of the day."

She smiled, picturing it all in her mind. "I like that. As you said, much less work," she agreed. "However, if we decided we needed extra income, I have a pretty good idea of what would provide it." She took a sip of wine, a thoughtful expression on her face. "You've heard of Areva, haven't you?"

He tipped his head back a bit, not entirely surprised the topic of France's main supplier of nuclear energy had come up in the discussion. "Of course, I have. They're worldwide now, as we both know; they're even getting into nuclear fuel reprocessing here in the U.S." He shook his head, giving her a disapproving look. "You'd want go into the private sector and consult for them on security issues? The object of retirement is to stop working and do what you _want_ to do, not what you have to do."

"Agreed, John, however when you're running nuclear power plants that provide at least seventy percent of a country's power, would you refuse help with keeping those investments safe from terrorists?" She gave him her best Cheshire Cat smile, the one she usually saved for Cragen when she was trying to wriggle out of a lengthy rip. She shrugged, taking a bite of the steak she'd almost finished.

"I'd prefer you weren't flitting across France, from reactor to reactor, when you're supposed to be retired and enjoying the rest of your life," Munch replied. "Just because you're involved in keeping our nation's reactors safeguarded doesn't mean either of us are truly big fans of nuclear power. We don't usually admit our fears to each other, but we've agreed in the past that nuclear power is a huge safety gamble in the best of conditions." He took her hand in his once more, discreetly beneath the table, in case prying eyes were upon them. "I don't want you accidentally being involved in another Chernobyl or Fukushima, Sarah."

"I really don't want to be either," she agreed, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. "Nuclear energy scares the living daylights out of me, which is why I worked so hard to educate myself about it. The extreme danger is why I wanted to specialize in advising people in law enforcement and EMS about how to keep reactors safe – so that we won't have another Three Mile Island due to terrorism." Sarah thought for a long moment, trying to decide how best to explain to John what her goal would be in working for Areva.

"John, most power conglomerates have enough to worry about with nuclear power – training, safety, various organizations that regulate them, what have you – so they'd probably welcome someone who could advise them on how best to strengthen their counter-terrorism measures," she began. "I'd be in a great position to do that, and I'm sure they'd be willing to pay me handsomely for what I can teach them. I wouldn't be at each reactor for very long, instead I'd be at their offices in France for a few days, then right back home to you." She smiled, this time softly as she interlaced her fingers in his. "It's just something to think about. You know how we're always looking at options for the future."

"I'll go along with it only if it becomes a 'have to' situation," Munch agreed reluctantly, "otherwise we're both retired and plan to spend our days traveling, drinking excellent wine, enjoying gourmet food, whatever we want to do."

"Agreed." She finished her sirloin, took a final sip of wine and placed her napkin on the table. "The last thing I want is to end up like Marie Curie, irradiated almost to the point of glowing in the dark." Sarah laughed sarcastically, pushing her foot against his. "Radiation is nasty stuff, the less we're exposed to it, the better. At first, I wasn't even too thrilled with the idea of moving to Provence after we retire, because of the proximity we'd have to nuclear reactors – France is as filled with them as the U.S. at this point, maybe even more so. But, life is a series of trade-offs."

"They seem to be having better luck with nuclear power over there, unless their press is as restricted as Japan's is about Fukushima. I haven't seen much in the newspapers to suggest they're being censored." Munch read a French language newspaper in the evenings, to keep his skills sharp. While he'd taken French in high school, his Uncle Andrew spoke it very fluently and expected his nephew's level of proficiency to be the same. "We're only forty miles from a major nuclear power plant, living here in Manhattan, but you know that even better than I do." John subtly gestured to their server for the check.

"I know. It keeps me awake some nights." Zelman had pulled a few strings through the Bureau to get a top-quality Geiger-Mueller radiation counter, which could give accurate levels of alpha, beta and gamma contamination. Every now and then, she'd sneak up to the roof of her building or John's with the device to measure background radiation. What she failed to realize was that he knew she had been doing so ever since the Level 7 accident in Japan.

She accepted the check from their server with a smile, not bothering to look at the total before handing him her VISA card. When he returned with her card and receipt, she checked the itemized bill, added a very generous tip and signed the merchant's copy. "Where would you like to go next?"

A smile played at the corners of John's mouth. "As cheesy as it sounds, your place or mine." It wasn't a question, as was usually asked at the end of the night in single's bars. Rather, as he escorted her out of the eatery, it was his plan to get her home – whichever place that suited her at the moment – and have his way with her until they were both exhausted, fully satisfied, and cuddled together in bed for some decent sleep.

…_**to be continued…**_


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